


Spacemen

by ReoPlusOne



Series: The Big Reveal and Others [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:51:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReoPlusOne/pseuds/ReoPlusOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America decides that he is going to go to space -- and is joined by an old rival.</p><p>Eventual RusAme.  Sequel to The Big Reveal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Setting Out

Breakfast at 6 AM. Phone call to the president at 6:30, then it was off to Good Morning America to have an interview and make light of the irony of the name. Then he had to give a speech at some convention for at-risk youth (whatever that means) and rush off for one more interview, then a quick dinner and off to bed for another early start. This was his average Saturday. Alfred would never deny to anyone that he was busy before the news broke but at least every appointment wasn't punctuated by paparazzi hounding him for his pants size.

"At least all I have to do when they start bugging me is lift something heavy," He said into the phone. "They back off after that."

"What did you lift this time?"

"Your limo." A sigh. Sort of like England's but more accepting of the fact that he couldn't punish him if he tried.

"Did you break it?"

"Nope."

"Well, kudos for that at least." Alfred took a victory sip from his bowl. Milk was pretty good, but at least twice as good when it had been marinading fruit loops for the past twenty minutes. Before he knew it the president had to go and he was scrambling to get his jacket on and start his car. No paparazzi for once. That was a relief.

-

"For an old guy England definitely knows how to throw a party," He said with a snort. The lovely female hostess with her hairspray-stiff hair laughed along as well. She smelled bad as she did it and he tried not to wrinkle his nose. "But yeah, it was pretty cool. We all got scripted on what to say beforehand and I had little notecards, even though it was just like -- a song and then we had to say 'long live England' three times or something."

"Did you say everything right?"

"I think so. I thought to say 'no taxation without representation' but then I remembered I've been independent for over two hundred years."

-

140 characters was the limit on all Twitter posts. He may be able to get seated instantly at any restaurant and call up any celebrity in the world (and actually _speak_ to them), but the little blue bird wouldn't give him any special allowances. Alfred appreciated that, so he used it.

"I'll never get to see The Hobbit at this rate" didn't seem sad enough. He added a frowning face and watched excitedly as his computer screen exploded with responses. The glories of technology!

As he watched the computer screen flash and quietly hoped he wouldn't end up crashing their servers he thought. "You should be careful doing that," Arthur would have said. "You'll end up hurting yourself." He really had looked utterly regal in his robes and everything, not that Alfred was really willing to admit that, but a part of Alfred felt oddly jealous.

Every nation envied humans in some way. He distinctly remembered a time during his own revolution when France had found him in his field holding a soldier to his chest. He was just a child then, the only times he'd really become intimate with death were the times a colt had gotten sick and simply never woken from its sleep. But this was entirely different. While the nations of Europe had grown up in a world that was entirely accustomed to the glories of war, Alfred struggled to see any beauty in the blood-soaked teenager that had died in such a stupidly futile way, his eyes frozen open, his skin cold.

"His troubles are over," Francis said to him softly. "He will never feel heartache or anger or fear again. His entire life stopped here," He still pressed a hand to the boy's face and closed those eternally staring eyes, "He has gone into Heaven." He never once sounded mournful. He sounded positively envious. And Alfred grew to learn why more and more.

Every time he stopped his pickup out west to help a struggling farmer with a herd that just wouldn't listen, he felt it tug at his heart. This man would spend his life thinking of simple things like when his heifers would calf and what his wife was going to make for dinner. And someday he'd grow old and just like that colt he'd close his eyes and just never open them again.

When Alfred dies, it will not be peaceful. When Alfred dies, Arthur and Francis and possibly his brother will all be long dead. He will be the last one standing, alone and as bitter and sick inside as Arthur was before him. It will be a long time coming when his immortality slips away like that of Hercules, and he finally can bring himself to succumb to some nuclear explosion (by the time it comes he will welcome it).

For all their servitude the nations had better have a damn nice place in Heaven waiting for them.

"You get all the stress of a presidency but no one ever claps for you," The first president Roosevelt had said to him once. "How terrible it must be to be an unsung hero." Roosevelt could never appreciate it fully -- he himself set aside land for wildlife reserves and was the (real-life, sung) hero of the Spanish-American war. No one noticed the little blond boy standing in the background of so many portraits.

Another meeting has somehow slipped past his radar and wound up on his schedule but not on his calendar. He knew this because he got a panicked call from the president and found himself driving downtown before he could really realize what had happened. They were lucky he happened to be in L.A. already or they would have been shit out of luck.

He got to thinking again, about how lucky Arthur was. Humans always got the good stuff in life -- every nation envied something of theirs -- and alongside mortality it sometimes seemed awfully unfair. The humans got to sit on the throne and love with all their hearts and without repercussions (sometimes) and got to know exactly how old they were and who their parents were. They got to be loved for who they really were. They didn't have nightmares about the Bay of Pigs.

The thing that pissed Alfred off most? They got to go into fucking _space_.

He'd never been allowed. He'd trained with astronauts and met astronauts and gotten _so much shit_ signed by astronauts but never was he ever allowed into space. The program is intensely public, so many presidents had to explain over and over. And if a new face showed up people would want to know what university he attended, where he grew up. People would have to come out of the woodwork to vouch for his humanity, his normalcy (as normal as a spaceman could be). No matter what, none of his fellow nations seemed to feel the same way -- they were tied to the land, to the animals and most of all to the people, the majority of whom had never left their little blue dot. "It makes no sense whatsoever to feel closer to the sky than the ground," Arthur had said to him once.

But didn't it make sense to look up at that sky and wonder what it would be like? Didn't it make sense to see Sputnik streak through the endless stars and think _God, I'd give anything_ \--

Hair and makeup was done in a flash. Someone was announcing him onstage, nation name and then person name as always, and he was sitting in an uncomfortable chair trying to look casual. Alfred answered his questions like a good boy, laughed when he was supposed to. Only stumbled once or twice.

And then the host gave him a peculiar look. "Mister Jones, before you go I just have one question for you. What are you going to do now that your secret's out? Is there something, I don't know, special you have in mind?"

He could only grin and say, "Yeah. I'm going to space."


	2. Take it In

It hadn't been that long since a foreign nation had visited the White House. It had been a long time since Ivan had visited, however, so everyone was scrambling. Anyone who wore a suit to work had nerves that were absolutely in shambles -- Alfred, thankfully, got to wear whatever the hell he wanted, which was, at that point, just a t-shirt and jeans. When Ivan arrived, it seemed that even his own superiors hadn't been able to force him into more than a somewhat-dressy collared shirt -- he didn't feel so bad. Alfred would not stand to be outdone.

"Hey, so the last time you were over here you were still the Soviet Union, huh?"

Ivan nodded, kneeling to greet the president's dog without a word. Alfred stood awkwardly and waited.

"Welcome to the White House, Mister Braginsky," Said the president graciously. "Was your flight pleasant enough?"

"Flights are not pleasant," Russia drawled, standing from the dog's attention and reclining in a sofa. It creaked with the effort, bless its heart. Alfred would replace the springs after all this was over.

"I understand you wanted to come up to the space station," America said in his best professional voice.

"I saw your interview -- I would like that very much." There was a bit of a twinkle in those big, observant eyes.

"Why would you like to come with me? Just out of curiosity,"

"I would like to see the stars."

"You can't see the stars any better from space."

"I want to see them anyway."

"But --"

"It will be done," Ivan said shortly, running his hand along the dog's head. "And that is that."

-

"It's an honor to meet you both." Alfred tried to smile but found himself hiding, a shy child for the first time since he was taller than an adult's waist. The man who was honored just to meet him was an astronaut, a veteran of the final frontier and all Alfred had ever done was not die when he should have. Where was the honor in that?

"It's more than an honor to meet you sir," Alfred said quickly, "I have three posters signed by you hanging up in my room."

"If I had known who I was signing them for I would have personally delivered them," the astronaut said with a laugh. "I'm just curious though. You're both at least -- what, three, four hundred years old? You've witnessed countless amazing moments in history. Alfred, you were there for the Boston Massacre, weren't you?"

Alfred frowned. Some things he probably shouldn't talk about in interviews. "Yeah, I was."

"If you were there, and you actually knew the founding fathers, in the eighteenth century... what on Earth would make you want to go up and float around in space? Surely you've gotten your kicks already."

"If you've been in space," Ivan said, brow furrowed, "Why would you want to get shot at and catch dysentery?"

For once the man was talking sense.

-

"First, we're going to let you practice in the pool and see how well you operate in zero-gravity. After that we'll undergo some rigorous training to get you both into shape. This is going to be a six-month routine..." The astronaut eyed them both. "Are you sure you're both up for it?" Alfred was pretty sure he wasn't the only one covering up a flabby midsection at that comment.

In the locker room, back to back and slipping into their wetsuits, Ivan, too, found himself thinking. It wasn't that long ago that the two of them were the most mortal of enemies their little pack of immortals had ever known. He had never been proud of the fact that their once-amicable relationship had turned so sour so quickly, but then -- Ivan had had a lot of experience with such things before then. Those experiences were good at hardening him, everything about him, except, apparently, his belly. "Muffin-top," He murmured curiously. Alfred looked over his shoulder, red-faced and only partially into his suit. "Does it come from --" Ivan hesitated. "Is it because of eating muffins? Or because it looks like muffin?"

"Both, in your case," Alfred huffed. He was really more like Arthur than he'd ever give himself credit for.

"Would rather have muffin-top than burger-top," Said Ivan with a shrug. Alfred threw his shirt at him and shuffled off to change in the bathroom.


	3. Dreaming of Stars

Training was endless. When all your workouts were natural, a result of farm work that had to be done and getting to meetings with people who had to be met, it was easy to forget how strong you were becoming. But astronaut training was different. They were scientists, expected to be so driven they could forget they had an appetite or a need for sleep (Alfred had more problems with the former, Ivan, with the latter). By the time their instructor congratulated them on finishing their last day of training there was not a single muffin-top left in the room, and the two of them had never been more grateful to go back to a hotel room.

"I'm starving," Alfred said. His pillow was kind enough to muffle that for him.

"Get up," Ivan replied, running a finger under Alfred's belt loop and lifting him up a few inches. He rolled over, mumbling something like 'civil disobedience', which was also muffled, and kicking his feet.

"Arthur and Matthew are coming tonight," Ivan reached for the belt loop again. "We won't see them again until we come down." So he didn't appear too eager, Alfred shuffled to the hotel bathroom with a sigh. Ivan watched him primp and straighten his suit jacket out of the corner of his eye with a smile. He'd never seen such a human look of worry on his face before.

-

"You know it's not my birthday," Alfred gave Arthur a shove, which in turn earned him a kick. Arthur was careful not to upset the two boxes in his arms, one in red, one in blue, each with a ribbon on top.

"Just for that, I won't give you a present when it is," He replied. Matthew laughed, until Arthur turned to him. "You won't be getting one either, with that attitude." Obediently, Matthew was quiet, and the restaurant's music drowned out the retort he was sure to come up with under his breath.

"What is in them?" Ivan asked with a curious tilt in his posture.

"You can find out, if you care that much," The red box found itself in Ivan's hands (unsurprisingly) and he began to peel away the ribbon, as did Alfred on his own.

"Scarves?"

"Yes," Arthur said with a huff. "It's cold up there, and your suits won't always protect you. So I knitted you some scarves."

"It has been ages since I received a gift from you," Ivan said. "Thank you." He sounded almost touched, but the moment he moved for a hug he was firmly deflected.

"There's a reason I don't give you gifts," Arthur replied.

"With our flags on them? You're such an old lady," Alfred snickered, tying his own around his neck. "But these are really cool actually." He stretched the yarn like a destructive child, watching the fibers of the stars on his flag fade into the stars in the deep blue night sky that hung off the other end.

Arthur stood on his tiptoes to tie Alfred's correctly, tightening the knot just right. "Come back safely. Both of you."

"You're such a baby Arthur. Don't cry now,"

"Don't say that when you have noose on your neck," Ivan said with a laugh.

-

They found themselves back in the hotel room that night, awkwardly crawling into separate beds. Ivan wrapped his fingers around his scarf, wondering for a moment why Arthur had chosen the Soviet sickle to express with his threads, all gold-yellow and blood-red and shimmering.

"What's your original name?" Alfred asked, out of the blue, anxiously wrapping and unwrapping his own flag around his arm.

"Original?"

Alfred nodded. "Arthur said he had a name when he was born, that Rome called him Britannia and his mom used to call him Albion."

"I... don't have a mother, if that's what you're asking," Ivan replied slowly.

"No, not a mother," Alfred said with a frustrated huff, "A real name. Something you've had since... forever."

"Do you have one?" Ivan chanced a look at Alfred, finding it less uncomfortable than he figured it would be.

"Arthur's the closest thing I've got to a parent and he's too stingy to give me one."

"Does it matter?" Ivan blurted out. He saw blue eyes in the red light of the alarm clock frown and seem almost violet. English was not the language to explain this in. Like switching gears in a car Ivan switched to Universal, their language, older than dirt but easy to twist and understand, something every one of their kind was born knowing. "What I was trying to say," He stumbled -- he hadn't used it in some time but at least it was better than English -- "Your roots do not count as much as you think they do."

"My roots?" America replied, in English. Damn him. The gears in Ivan's mind had to shift to re-register the words inside.

"You were raised as an Englishman, but you have shed that identity and made your own," Ivan said. "It does not matter if you do not have a fancy birth name -- neither do I. But we have both sent our men into space, and tomorrow, we will go as well. That is what counts."

Alfred took a moment to smile that effortless, unending smile that Ivan somehow succumbed to, because he smiled too. "Thanks, man."

"No problem," Ivan said, in English, because Alfred would eventually always get his way. Even from him.


End file.
